


Missed You

by I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:07:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them/pseuds/I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My take on the reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missed You

They came back every year to lay flowers at the spot. Usually it was just John and Mrs. Hudson, but sometimes Lestrade or Molly came too. Never Mycroft, although there were often flowers and cigarettes left by someone other than them, and John thought Mycroft was probably the one behind it.

John didn't like going near the place. He had given up his job and moved to a small clinic on the other side of the city so he wouldn't have to be reminded, wouldn't have to see in his mind's eye the blood seeping into the pavement. Passing by made him sick. But he came anyway, every year on that day, because it was Sherlock, and he would do anything for him.

Of course, he doubted Sherlock would even approve of the ritual. Sentiment, he would say with a curled lip and a hint of disgust. John came anyway. It wasn't for Sherlock. It was for himself. He thought it would help him say goodbye. His therapist disagreed, but she always had been incompetent.

It was the day again. The third anniversary of the Fall, and no less painful than the first. Mrs. Hudson couldn't come, because she was visiting her family somewhere. It was the first year she'd missed. Lestrade and Molly couldn't come either, and John didn't even bother asking Mycroft, so he went alone. He walked up slowly and placed the flowers against the wall. He stood there, a lump in his throat. He just stood, facing the wall, silently staring at the ground and ignoring curious glances from passerby. And then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up, and it was Him.

"Sherlock," he choked.

"John," came the whispered response.

"You- you're- you were- you died, Sherlock. I saw your body. You're dead. You can't be here."

"I'm not dead. I'm right here."

John stared at him for a long minute. Then he wrenched away from Sherlock's grip and punched him in the face.

The detective staggered, but didn't fight back, didn't defend himself. John threw himself at him, hitting him and tearing at his hair. "You let me think for three years that you were dead! Do you know how that felt, Sherlock? You were my best friend and you left me and I thought you were dead and I actually grieved for you, you know that? I'm still grieving, you bastard, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock said, softly, tenderly, a level of emotion in his voice that John had never heard from him. "I know. John. John. I know."

A police officer appeared and pulled them apart. He tried to put handcuffs on John's wrists, but Sherlock stopped him. "Officer, don't. It's quite all right. It is entirely unnecessary to arrest him. A misunderstanding. I quite deserved this."

"Look," said the officer, "You can't go around having domestics on the street."

"Not a domestic," John muttered half-heartedly under his breath, "Really not a couple, not that anyone cares." He was ignored, as always.

"Of course not," said Sherlock with a charismatic smile. "We're both very sorry. It won't happen again. Usually we have no reason to fight; it's just that this is the first time we've seen each other since I faked my own suicide without telling him what I was doing, so he's a bit irritated. I'm sure you would be too."

"Right," said the officer skeptically. "Well, I'll let it go with a warning, but I don't want to hear about either of you again."

"You won't," Sherlock said cheerfully. But as they were walking away he whispered to John, "Not unless he tunes into any of the major news shows in the near future when my survival is discovered." It took all of John's effort to not laugh.

When the detective and his blogger walked into 221B Baker Street, John turned to Sherlock and said, "Damn it, Sherlock. You've got a lot of explaining to do."

And then he pulled Sherlock towards him, wrapped his arms around his waist, and hugged him. "I've missed you. God, Sherlock, I've missed you so much."

And the man so often thought to be emotionless hugged him back, rested his cheek on John's head, and said, "I've missed you too, John."


End file.
